Love: Parts One & Two

Love One: Trying to love in an unloving world.

Her hair was red, and I’ll never forget that about her. Not a ginger type of red, I mean really red. Red like love, like passion – or blood. She sat across the opposite side of café, unaware of my presence as I engulfed myself in hers. This is where we first met all those years ago. I remember because it was exactly like this; she sat in the corner booth on her own reading a book, and I sat alone by the window listening to my iPod. She always preferred literature to music, maybe that was one of the problems. I didn’t approach her first, no, I certainly wouldn’t have the confidence to do that. I hadn’t been with a girl in years due to my quiet, shy approach. I spent pretty much all my time here, listening to music and watching people through the glass window. I thought I liked watching people, seeing how different everyone was, looking at their emotions and feelings and judging them through nothing more than a stroll past a run-down, cheap café. Now I realize that I don’t really like it at all. All I seem to see is couples, and really happy couples. Really happy couples that just make me hate her more.

So she approached me first. It wasn’t really being approached so much as a messy collision of two lives. Two very, very different lives. She got up to leave, pulling on her heavy blue winter coat, and began to weave through the tables towards the door. As she swung to maneuver the protruding countertop, her dark suede satchel bag knocked my double espresso straight into my lap. I jumped to my feet and cursed as I felt the scorching liquid seep into my jeans. I pathetically swiped at my legs, achieving nothing. Her hand sprang to her mouth and she apologized over and over, grabbing handfuls of napkins and trying desperately to help. But I was angry, as you can imagine. A new pair of trousers, a good £40, wasted on a complete stranger. I clenched my teeth and fire burnt in my eyes, but the second my gaze met hers, I couldnt’ve felt more of an opposition.
It was her blue eyes. Her ghostly blue eyes that contrasted, yet complimented her red hair so beautifully. Like a love affair of colour, of beauty. They say that love is blind, yet I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. And that’s when it began. I was smitten, completely in love with her. She was outgoing, spontaneous, she loved to laugh and I loved to hear it. She came into the café almost every Thursday morning, and we began to sit at the same table. Most of the time, we wouldn’t talk too much, but her book distracted her from my constant gaze of affection I couldn’t bear to move. I got to know her bit by bit, first her name, then her job, then her age. It was enough to get the ball rolling. After a year or so of almost weekly meetings, and more or less 52 weekly facts, I asked her out. She smiled in a way I couldn’t comprehend and said ‘Okay,’ and such a simple word had never sounded so sweet.

She didn’t have a free Saturday until a good month or two later. It was a stone cold December evening. I’d offered to pick her up, but she declined as she didn’t want me to spend too much money on her, and I liked her thoughtfulness. She turned up in a little black dress and flat black shoes with red detail. She wore a simple gold necklace and her hair was tied up in a ponytail. Her makeup was simple, but gorgeous. She looked stunning. We sat down at our table in the corner of the renowned French restaurant and ordered almost straight away. The conversation started quite awkwardly, but quickly drew into a pleasant and laid back chat. I enjoyed my evening, though she seemed a little stiff. She sat on the edge of her seat, back straight and tried not to look into my eyes. I was watching her avoid me, almost. But I thought it was just nerves. I paid for our meal after a good hour and a half of topical chat and great food, and then walked her out to help get her a taxi.

And then she broke my heart. Right there, outside the very restaurant I thought I’d won her over in. She went off to “get a taxi,” so I headed back to my car. The car park was a good 5 minute walk from the restaurant itself, and just as I hit the corner I saw her. She wasn’t in a taxi at all, she wasn’t even in a car, she was with a man. Another man. She was laughing the same laugh I used to love, only this time she used it against me. She used words like ‘pathetic,’ words like ‘hopeless’ and ‘pitiable,’ and other diminishing and demoralizing ways to describe me. Now, I’m not one to cry, especially not in public, but the sight of her and him and the humiliation was enough. More than enough. I took the other route to my car, and drove to nowhere.

I didn’t confront her, I couldn’t. I stopped going to the café on a Thursday, I stopped going anywhere that I thought she might be. I hated to love her. Hated to really, really love her. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw hers. It hurt more than the coffee; it hurt more than the humiliation. It took a while for my new routine to settle, but when it did, she was on my mind less and less. But still on my mind, no doubt. A year passed. A cold, lonely year. It was December, but not even the thick fog could stop me spotting her through the café window. I promised myself it would be the last time and headed in to sit in my usual spot. But as I sit here, staring, I know it won’t be.


Love Two: How to pay the bills.

I was minding my own business. I had places to be, and it was only ever going to be my clumsiness that got in my way, wasn’t it? I scraped my hair away from my neck as I pulled on my blue duffle coat and got on my way to work. I inwardly groaned at the thought of having to sit in the office all day. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and headed towards the door. I dodged the other customers, and -unaware that my bag had a mind of its own – knocked a cup of coffee into the lap of some middle-aged, lost – cause of a man. The face he pulled as the coffee made contact with his thigh was laughable. I stifled my giggles and turned to grab some napkins. Incapable of swallowing my smile, I pretended to raise my hand to my mouth in shock. I apologized and threw some napkins at him. I didn’t want to help; it was my bags fault, not mine. He looked up at me and I braced myself for the impact of his obvious frustration. But suddenly his vicious, angry mask fell. He looked at me in utter peacefulness and said, “It’s okay.”

In all honesty, I did milk it a bit. See, I’m the kind of person who really will do anything to get out of everything. And I used this as an opportunity to be ‘late’ for work. I apologized over and over, and asked him if there was anything I could do. He lapped it up, and I had to stop myself laughing as he fell in love with me. I did go to work eventually; no one really noticed I was late. That was annoying. I could’ve strolled in anytime and no one would care if I was an hour early or late. I hated my job, every day I came in seemed to pave my way to never getting a job I liked faster and faster. I sat and typed pages of nothingness with one finger, leaning on my left hand until it became numb. Jason came in at about 2, which made things a bit more bearable. I told him about the man in the café, and he laughed. It made me feel better; I’d started to feel guilty about using him. Then I went back to being bored until my tedious day drew to a slow, lazy end.

Next Thursday was like any other. I woke up at seven, had a hot shower, got dressed, grabbed my favourite book and my purse, then left to get breakfast at the café. But my booth was taken. The place was deserted, and I always used that booth, no one was getting away with this. Angry, I rocketed towards my seat, my heels clicking against the polished wooden floor and my red hair blowing in the wind I created for myself. I got to my table and opened my mouth to speak, until I saw that it was him. The middle-aged moron was there, at my table. And he’d bought me my usual muffin and coffee. He felt my presence and turned from the window, taking out his headphones, “Please, this one’s on me.” I smiled and took a seat opposite him. I put out my hand. “Katie.” “Tony.” I opened my book and took a sip of my coffee, I could get used to this.

And I did. I was broke. And Tony seemed like the kind of guy who was quite well-off. A meal a week wasn’t too much to ask, was it? I kept him keen, told him about myself about asked him about himself. And he bought it: every word, and my breakfast for a year. Then one day, just as I closed my book and got up to leave, Tony caught me by my arm. I pulled away, and turned back to face him. “Would you like to go out sometime, Katie?” I muffled my grin and tried to look serious. “Okay.”

Jason thought it was funnier than I did, this time. I squirmed helplessly; I couldn’t get out of this one. I felt like bait, and this was one ugly fish I was catching. I planned the date as far away as I could, to give me time to find an excuse, but I couldn’t bring myself to break his heart. So I went. It must’ve been January, maybe December. I only remember because it was really cold. I hadn’t bothered getting ready, just the daily make up and a black dress that was two sizes too big. I didn’t have time to shower, so I scraped my hair back. I rejected the awkward car journey and let Jason walk me, which was a mistake. His prep talk was more like setting me up to point and laugh at Tony, then run away in hysterics. But I got through the evening. It was awkward. I couldn’t look at his aging face or his lonely eyes; I didn’t want to feel guilty about doing it. I shouldn’t feel guilty about it, should I?

I left as soon as I could, letting him pay. Two meals in a week, a new record! I almost ran from the restaurant, trying to get the creepy and harrowing atmosphere out of my hair, out of my mind. Jason met me on the corner. “How was it?” I didn’t reply, the look I gave him was enough to have him in fits. And then we walked home, laughing and cringing and joking about the night like there was no tomorrow. In all honesty, it was a night I would pay to forget. I’m sure he is a lovely man, but he was so old, so structured and desperate. To me, he was just a way to help pay my bills.

The next Thursday, I strolled into the café and walked over to my booth. He wasn’t there. At first it was strange; then it was a relief. I never saw him again.